At exactly two o’clock in the morning, a thirsty four-year-old boy padded barefoot into the mahogany hallway of New York’s most ruthless crime syndicate leader and shattered the illusion that had protected him for three years.

The grand ballroom of the Rossi penthouse was transformed into a bridal boutique. Seamstresses bustled around, carrying yards of imported Italian lace and silk. Elena stood on a velvet pedestal, examining her reflection in a massive gilded mirror. She looked angelic, pure, and utterly flawless.

Clara stood in the corner, holding a tray of champagne, forcing her expression to remain entirely blank.

"Clara, darling, smooth out the train, will you?" Elena commanded, not bothering to look at her.

Clara obediently knelt on the hardwood floor, adjusting the heavy silk. As she did, Elena leaned down, her voice dropping to a vicious, venomous whisper that only Clara could hear.

"You think you’re so clever, don't you?" Elena hissed. "Moving into the guest wing. Acting like you belong here. I notice the way Matteo looks at you, you little rat. Enjoy it while it lasts. After the wedding, the first thing I’m doing as Mrs. Rossi is throwing you and your bastard child out onto the street."

Clara kept her head down, her heart pounding against her ribs. She didn't say a word. She just finished smoothing the lace and stood up, stepping back into the shadows.

What Elena didn't know was that Clara had already relayed every detail of Elena’s secret phone calls to Matteo. Clara wasn't just a housekeeper anymore; she was the most dangerous weapon in Matteo’s arsenal, operating right under the bride’s arrogant nose.

Just then, Matteo walked into the room. He looked at Elena in the dress, his face an impenetrable mask.

"You look breathtaking, Elena," he lied effortlessly.